


we tried the world (good god, it wasn't for us)

by orphan_account



Category: Spring Awakening - Sheik/Sater
Genre: Multi, Suicide Attempt, but no one dies I swear
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-08
Updated: 2015-08-08
Packaged: 2018-04-13 14:44:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,630
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4526007
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Moritz was nearly eleven-years-old when he met Melchior Gabor, who stormed into his life in a display of intense, wonderful colors. He was fourteen when Wendla Bergman slowly began to swarm his mind with her gentle hues.</p>
            </blockquote>





	we tried the world (good god, it wasn't for us)

Moritz can remember distinctly the first time he ever saw colors. His mother decided to take his family on a picnic, and it was the one moment where nothing was tense; work and school were just distant memories left miles behind the dirt road. He was playing with some rocks when he noticed his mother laughing at something his father had said—and suddenly a bright shade of blue was swirling around her eyes. He had dropped the rock from his hand, and immediately rushed towards her.

“ _Mama_! Why are you blue?” He had no idea what other way to ask her.

She had furrowed her eyebrows, but kept her smile. She took his small hand into her and shook her head, laughing, though quieter than before.

“I am not, my boy—I feel quite… _happy_ actually.” She told him.

Moritz stayed quiet after that. Once they returned home the color stayed for almost a week (until his father had returned home one night, and the blue faded to a grey).

 

**.**

 

Moritz was nearly eleven-years-old when he met Melchior Gabor, who stormed into his life in a display of intense, wonderful colors.

Melchior was growing up to be one of the most handsome, most intelligent boys of the town. Moritz had never saw him much—only sometimes in church, where everyone’s colors seemed to melt together, like the stream he saw the girls so often visit. It was hard to pick out anyone’s colors then.

But—as soon as he met Melchior, it was hard to let the colors out of his sight.

In class he sat right behind him, and if his presence wasn’t already so demanding, the colors only made it more so. It was a dark shade of red with a gentle shimmer of gold beneath it. It was difficult not to admire his colors.

“ _Herr Stiefel_!”

All eyes were on him as he was being lectured about how it was important to _listen_ or he would never understand. He shrunk deeper into his seat afterwards, a familiar feeling clogging up his chest and throat—the feeling he got whenever his father was displeased and his mother wouldn’t speak to him.

“Moritz, is it?”

“H-huh?”

Melchior had turned around—his colors suddenly like _fire_.

“Don’t listen to him, okay? He shouldn’t be talking about not listening, when he doesn’t listen to his wife half the time.” Melchior whispered to him. Moritz held back a giggle.

How Melchior had come to know that, he would never discover, but found a lasting friendship with Melchior that day.

 

**.**

 

_( “I see colors.”_

_Melchior sat there in the grass. Staring._

_“P-Please say somethin, Melchi—anything!”_

_Melchior just tilted his head, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips._

_“And what colors do see you see with me, Moritz?”_

_Something small had bloomed in his chest. Moritz, in all of his thirteen years, had never felt such a thing before._

_“Just about everything! More often it’s red, with a hint of gold—but sometimes when things happen the colors can change—oh much like this one time when we were at church—“_

_Melchior had listened, only interjecting with questions every so often. But Moritz had answered them. And Melchior had listened._

Infatuation, _Moritz thought later. It was unfamiliar, but every time he thought of Melchior, the little feeling in his chest came back. He smiled into his pillow, thinking of Melchior’s wonderful colors._

_“Have you heard of Herr Baum’s son? What a shame—such a playful child.” His mother said as she buttoned up Moritz’s coat._

_“Well—he’s no longer Herr Baum’s child anymore—he’s been thrown out. No boy should behave like that with the other boys. Such disgraceful behavior.” His father had nearly snarled._

_“Love. What nonsense. Boys do not fall in love with boys.” He muttered._

_Moritz ran to school that day, and avoided Melchior all together._

_‘I do not like Melchior, I do not, I do not,_ I do not.’ _)_

**.**

 

Moritz had left those feelings behind, trying relentlessly to shove them away. Melchior knew that something was wrong (he always knew when something was wrong) and immediately made it his goal to find out why.

“You’re stiff as a log, Moritz!” Melchior said, laughing quietly. He sat with his legs out, resting back on his arms as if he didn’t have a care in the world. Moritz sat with his knees to his chest, staring down at the grass they sat on.

“I’m sorry.” Moritz mumbled.

Melchior drew his eyebrows in together and looked out at the stream. His eyes lit up, and idea forming in his head.

“Tell me what colors you saw this week Moritz.”

Moritz lifted his head, slightly confused. Melchior turned towards Moritz, crossing his legs and leaning in, interested.

“Well…Martha carried a strange pink-grey around her. Though, Thea showed up and they both shared a light shade of purple. It was…” Moritz trailed off. Melchior raised an eyebrow.

“It was…?”

“Strange. Interesting.” Moritz tried to find the right word.

“Because?”

“Because…” Moritz slowly let go of his knees. “Because I had never seen two people share the same color before. Not once. Ever.”

“And why do you think they were?” Melchior asked. Moritz was slowly letting himself go; calmer once talking about something he would usually never speak to anyone else.

Moritz’s eyes fell to ground once more, searching for an answer. One he did, his brown irises immediately widen and he turned his head away from Melchior.

“Moritz?” Melchior said gently. Moritz pulled into himself, refusing to speak.

“You know you can tell me _anything.”_ And it was true. Melchior held knowledge most thirteen-year-olds would recoil at, and other things that would make a true difference in their town. Whatever Moritz would say would be no different than the other things he knew.

“…Perhaps…”

“…Perhaps?”

Moritz shook his head.

“It’s a bad thought. Disastrous thought. It can’t be true—no it can’t be—father said—“

“Whatever your father said can’t possibly be any better than your own thoughts, your own discovery! Especially with whom you are Moritz; there are a thousand things he can’t possibly know more about!” Melchior exclaimed.

Moritz didn’t respond immediately. His shoulders were tense and he would face Melchior.

“Well…” Moritz began. Melchior scooted closer, wishing to hear Moritz’s every word. “I believe they were sharing colors because…they were— _infatuated_ with each other.”

Melchior raised his eyebrows, a smile forming on his lips.

“And why is that bad, disastrous and not true? Of course they could be infatuated with each other. It’s…normal.” Melchior responded.

“Normal?” Moritz turned to look at Melchior.

“Normal.” Melchior nodded.

 

**.**

_( Moritz was by the stream again, late at night. There was a wedding not too far away. His parents didn’t notice he had slipped away. They were dancing._

_“Moritz?” Melchior asked. Moritz looked up to see his closest friend, looking quite possibly the most handsome he’s ever looked._

_“Hello, Melchi.” Moritz said quietly, as though if he spoke too loud he would cause the whole wedding to stop._

_“Why did you leave?” Melchior asked, sitting down next to Moritz._

_“Don’t ruin your suit, Melchi—it looks to nice.” Moritz mumbled._

_“Yours looks better.” Melchior said casually. Moritz flushed a bright shade of pink, and prayed to God that Melchi couldn’t notice in the dark._

_“Melchi—“_

_Moritz didn’t get to finish, as Melchior had brought his lips to meet Moritz’s. Moritz’s hands went flying, causing him to lose his balance and land on his back with Melchior on his chest._

_“Melchi—oh God—I’m sorry—I—“_

_Melchior did nothing but shake his head and laugh. Moritz swallowed hard, looking at the bright pink that seemed to swarm him and Melchi—_

_That’s what it felt like._

_“Moritz?” Melchior voice wavered—he was worried. Moritz shook his head, blinking rapidly._

_“N-nothing I just—I’m—you’re—well—“_

_Moritz stopped blubbering and look at Melchior, who had nothing but fondness in his eyes; Moritz, who for once found an inkling of confidence, pushed up and kissed Melchior._

 

**.**

Moritz was fourteen and terrified. Threatened. In danger.

( “Oh— _those_ kinds of dream.” Melchior said, teasing. )

Moritz found himself staring inappropriately at church at certain girls who were starting to grow out of their dresses and who ran around barefoot at the stream. It felt wrong, but he didn’t know what else to do, how else to _feel._

Melchior sat with him by the stream, writing in his journal. Moritz was trying to get through his geometry assignment without shedding tears like he did last time. Melchior had taken to running a hand through his hair, which made Moritz even more restless than usual.

_( They hadn’t kissed since that night. But Moritz was too afraid to ask, and he didn’t know how Melchior’s mind ran at all, so all he could was be satisfied with Melchi walking him home. )_

Moritz lifted his head to find a piercing shade of green radiating from the end of the stream. He sat up and found Wendla Bergman carrying a basket of berries and flowers. Her eyes went wide, and she nearly dropped everything she had been holding.

“I’m sorry—“

“No need. We were just working on school work.” Melchior replied calmly.

Moritz didn’t say anything and only stared, looking between the red that shot out from Melchior and the soft green that radiated Wendla. She scrunched up her nose and shook her head.

“Well, I’ll just go then—“

“No, please!” Moritz nearly yelled. Wendla stepped back, and Moritz shrunk into himself.

“Well…I suppose it wouldn’t hurt—though I need to be back for supper soon!” Wendla exclaimed, as if she needed an excuse to leave as soon as possible. Moritz nodded and moved slightly to let Wendla near him and Melchior.

“…Remember when we used to play pirates?” Moritz muttered, mostly to himself. Wendla’s eyebrows shot up, looking amazed and shocked.

“I thought I was the only one who remembered.” Wendla smiled gently at both of them.

_( He felt it again—something bloomed in his chest. )_

 

**.**

_( If Melchior was fire, Wendla was rain._

_Moritz was thunder and storms._

_A strange balance. All three of them were needed for destruction. But perhaps all needed for everyone to live._

_When Wendla spoke it was soft, but loud and the most calming sound to Moritz. With Melchior’s touch it was soothing and electrifying at the same time. With the two of them, Moritz never felt more in touch with everything. )_

**.**

 

Moritz failed.

_Moritz failed._

He holds the gun against his head and feels tears trickle down his face. It would be _so easy_ to just pull the trigger and end it all. No more stress, no more fear, no more confusion and no more—

_( ‘No more Melchior, no more Wendla, no more soft voices and soothing hands. No more rainy days spent inside, no more hands running through his hair. No more colors. No more red and gold, no more greens and blues—‘ )_

Moritz’s grip on the gun tightened.

_( ‘No more hugs from Ernst, no more piano playing from Georg—‘ )_

It would be _easy_ —

_( ‘No more walks by the stream. No more kisses—‘ )_

Moritz pulled the trigger—

And it clicked. _Empty._

He sobbed even more, shrinking into himself. Confusion, fear, and something like _relief_ flooded through him.

 

.

_( Melchior finds him just like that, asleep on the ground and the gun empty and unharmed. )_

**.**

Melchior gets sent away to a reformatory school. Moritz shadows Ilse, and reluctantly joins in on her Bohemian lifestyle. Moritz visits Wendla often, missing her soft green light whenever he’s wandering with Ilse. He learns to paint and even though it doesn’t feel like he’s not doing anything but throwing paint on a canvas, Wendla begs him to show her what he’s made.

He’s sitting outside with her one day when sits upright, crossing her legs and staring at the stream. She grabs Moritz’s hand unexpectedly, causing him to fling some paint on himself. He doesn’t mind though, because as soon as he turns to look at her, her green goes to a light shade of grey with a tiny bit red (something he realized she picked up from Melchior).

“I’m—“

Moritz squeezes her hand lightly and she sighs, turning to look at him straight in the eye.

“Mama—mama said I am—with—Melchior’s—“She breathes in deeply. “I am with _child_.”

Moritz realizes many things at once—that it’s Melchior’s child, that Wendla didn’t know a lick of what sex is, and that Melchior must’ve told—or must’ve not as she wouldn’t have done anything, she wouldn’t choose to be with child.

“And—my God I should be angry—I feel as if this should be Melchior’s fault—but…”

“But…?”

“…Mama never told me anything. I asked. She never said anything. Nothing but stories of the stork and love.” Wendla said, her voice wavering. She leans her head against his shoulder and he feels her tears beginning to wet his shirt.

He doesn’t know what to _do._ Melchior knew everything—and he didn’t. He slowly wrapped his arms around Wendla, hoping that somehow _that_ would help—and surely, Wendla grabbed him and pulled him close enough that he could hear her heartbeat.

 

**.**

_( He sees Wendla’s mother leaving the house in the night, heading towards Doctor von Brausepulver’s house. He bites his lip, his trust in the adults fading quickly._

_He usually has the confidence of a baby bird learning to fly, but that night, he would proudly admit that he helped Wendla run away from home. )_

**.**

The graveyard is cold and damp. He stumbles upon a few headstones, with Wendla there to catch him as he does. She smiles weakly, shivering in her nightgown as she grasps her stomach, revealing the slight curve she has as she does. He doesn’t tell her but a hint of yellow surrounds her, blending in with the green. He smiles at the thought of the child, a perfect mix of Melchior and Wendla running around in the stream, in a fine shade of yellow.

“Ilse said he was coming.” Wendla said quietly. Moritz nodded.

“And he will.”

“How do you know, Moritz?”

He doesn’t. But Melchior promised by his heart, and this was no different than any other times he’s made one.

It’s silent as they wait for another hour, and by the time they even hear anything it feels like it’s been an eternity. Wendla shrinks into an air of grey with every minute Melchior does not appear, and she seems to lose hope. Moritz would be lying if wasn’t losing his too.

“… _Wendla_?” Melchior’s voice rings throughout the graveyard, loud and ringing.

Wendla springs up immediately and runs towards his voice. Moritz runs after her, trying to slow her down to prevent her from possibly hurting herself. Once he finds her, she’s kneeling by Melchior’s side, smiling and crying and holding his face in her hands. They share a deep shade of pink together, spikes of red, green, and gold appearing every so often.

“I am here. I am _here_ —“

_( The tombstones reads Wendla’s and Moritz’s name; petty attempts to cover up mistakes. )_

Moritz silently kneels down on the other side of Melchior, who immediately turns around. Melchior makes a broken sound and lets his head fall to Moritz’s chest. Moritz cradles Melchior’s head and looks at Wendla who only smiles through her tears.

“I’m ready to come _home_ —“Melchior said, his voice muffled i the fabric of Moritz’s shirt.

 

**.**

_( To the world, Moritz Stiefel is dead from suicide while Wendla Bergman passed away from anemia. Melchior is missing, having run away from the reformatory._

_Instead there’s a little house, filled to the brim with colors, with three people and child, untouched by everything, and ready for the new world. )_

 

 

                                                                                             

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! I apologize for any mistakes as I wrote this in one sitting, and haven't really looked it over. Title is taken from Hozier's Jackie and Wilson. Find me on tumblr at @smeewrites


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